10
His phone rang once.
He waited.
When it rang again, he answered because he was alone.
“The plane survived the crash,” his key analyst informed him with no wasted greeting.
“Where?”
“Nothing place in the middle of the Pacific, Johnston Atoll.”
“I’ll fix it,” he hung up.
Damn Guest Seven and her FSB renegades. The damned Russians had utterly screwed up. They hadn’t even managed to kill one goddamn airplane.
He stared out the window.
Johnston Atoll. A thousand miles from anywhere.
His father had served there, died from Agent Orange poisoning while cleaning up the massive stockpile stored on the island after Vietnam. No government acknowledgement of course.
That had been his father’s battle. Military service always had a high body count.
No one died sitting in their office chai
